


The Fog and The Maze

by ayeitsyasi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Death of John Watson, Death of Sherlock Holmes, Fluff, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Asylum, Mentions of Brain Tumor, Mentions of Suicide, Violence, mentions of counseling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:25:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7367155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayeitsyasi/pseuds/ayeitsyasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is experimenting and John is his target, maybe "You will be the death of us all." has a literal meaning after all.</p><p>Neither of them like tragedies, but what if they become one? No stage lights, no dialogues, no directors this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fog and The Maze

**_ Week 4 _ **

Unsettling, unraveling, unimaginable.

John couldn't possibly function. He needed a shower. He needed to wash off the feeling. Rinsing the sudden urge. Scrubbing every inch of his skin and possibly soul. He needed a shower.

"Towels! Towels!" he whispered, stomping to his room to grab a brand new towel. Others were disgusting. Used once, but disgusting. He needed a shower.

He started the shower. Cold water felt good...

  
Ravishing, settling, even calming.

"Shampoo." he whispered to himself. Whispers are his thing when Sherlock's not home. Where was he anyways? John didn't recall him pointing out any specific details about their recent case.

"Must've been urgent." He whispered to himself.

He whispered the name of everything he touched. He never knows if he's clean enough to step out. If _it_ has washed off.

He steps out of the shower. Naked. He wants to feel every drop of water run down his body as long as he can. Why did he get the towel?

Sherlock still isn't home. It isn't a surprise for John. Frankly it wouldn't be a surprise for anybody who knows Sherlock. He goes into his room, whispering. He tried to fight the urge to go over the past few weeks in his head. He really did, and it wasn't a surprise for him that he gave up to his mind and let it wander off. Would the people he knew be surprised that an army man who invaded Afghanistan doesn't have control over his mind? Maybe. Oh, maybe.

He lies down and can instantly feel the sheets getting wet. He wants his skin to absorb the water, not the bloody sheets. Anger is what he's feeling. These days he feels gray. Mixing-the-colours-of-the-rainbow gray. He watched a romance last week and felt nothing, which came out as strange because shouldn't _it_ make him feel something? He needed a nap. Robe first.

 

**_ Week 5 _ **

"How are you holding up, love?" Harry's voice is so warm. John feels like hugging her through the phone.

"I'm good. Are you doing okay?" He remembers not to whisper.

He can hear Harry smile on the other side of the phone. "Oh, I'm bloody amazing! One of my friends is getting married next week and I just came back from trying on bridesmaids dresses. Jesus, I never thought being a bridesmaid would be actually exciting!"

John can hear Harry, but he isn't listening. He feels bad for not listening. Does he need a shower?

"John? You still there?"

"Ah, yeah, sorry," _Distract her._ "That sounds great! I didn't know you had options for bridesmaids dresses." Not his best, but a good distraction.

"When do you boys ever know anything?" Laughter.

_She sounds so free. And happy._

"Love, I'm sorry but I gotta go. I'm bloody exhausted after that, talk to you later?"

"Yes."

"Take care." _Beep_.

Their conversations were different each time. Harry is always the happier one. She's always been. Sherlock would hate such small talk that repeats often times. "Boring", is what he would call it. How could a man like him ever be bored of anything? He looks around and observes every little thing. Stains, scratches, fading colors. How could a man like him ever get bored of perceiving every inch of life? The real question is, why does John trust him every time? It pisses him off to trust Sherlock without even sparing a second to think ' _what are the chances of him being right?'_

Lots of things piss him off these days. Anger is an emotion that hasn't faded away yet. He gets in the shower.

 

**_ Week 5 _ **

"John?"

It's not a whisper. It's not John. It's...

"Did you get my text?"

Ah, yes. It's Sherlock. John clears his throat. _Don't whisper_. "What text?"

"I wouldn't have texted it to you if it was worth remembering and saying out loud. It..." He opens the door and walks in, unbuttoning his coat. "...are you sick?"

John sits up. _Has anyone ever told you to knock? Jesus, this man is five._ "Maybe. Mind telling me where have you've been off too?"

Sherlock ignores John's question, instead he takes a step back and cocks an eyebrow to the shower. "Why have you showered two times today? You never usually work out or do any extreme exercises during the day and I don't think you've joined a gym, so... Why would you..."

"Oh, for god's sake Sherlock, don't put on all that mysterious detective act thing. I've been intimidated enough. One can simply get used to anything."

Sherlock smirks. God, he fucking _smirks_.

_What have you been doing?_

"Well anyways, there is a new case that I've got a hold of. Missing wife. And yes, I'm aware that does not sound anything like I would waste my time on, but this one's different." He walks into the kitchen, getting a cup of tea.

John's bare feet touch the floor. He feels light-headed. _What have I been doing?_

He walks into the kitchen. It's dark out. How much sleep did he get? Questions, questions. All of them unanswered and—blurry?

"Well I assume this is the part where I ask 'how is the case different?'" He looks up at Sherlock, already sipping his tea and pulling out a chair.

"Well it is indeed." He says, still not erasing that smirk from his face. John's heart aches.

Sherlock takes another sip from his tea. "Mrs. Andrea Avion, 32 years old, married to Henry Turrentine for six years now. Mr. Turrentine claims she's gone missing for a good three days, and he also claims that he thinks this was a kidnapping taking action by Mrs. Avion's ex-husband, Christopher Paul." Another sip. "Now what's interesting about this, is that someone named Christopher Paul has bought a house just two blocks away from Mr. Turrentine's house about 8 years ago. Turrentine claims that he's seen no signs of life in that house and "have been waiting for the government to take it down.""

John has zoned out a long time ago. God, he doesn't even know what he's distracted by. The fact that he needs another shower? Or the fact that Sherlock's lips are so brilliantly detailed? He's tried to escape this feeling –that he sort of doubts can be counted as a feeling– for a very long time, but then here is Sherlock simply saying a 'fuck you' to all of his progress. No. John has to take control. He was one to obey orders, but he has the ultimate power over himself, he knows that, it'd be spectacular if he believed it, too.

Sherlock goes silent. _Stop staring John. How long has he stopped talking?_

"Where is your starting point?" He tries to ask the safest question. Unless Sherlock was waiting for an answer to a question—

"Well, Turrentine says he's been seeing action in that house for about a month now, so I'm deciding to start there. There won't be a thing there I can sense that."

_Of course you can._

"As much as I want to sit here and revolve the possibilities about this case, I would love to get some sleep. What time is it anyway?"

"1:54"

_Jesus. Sherlock's really into this case._

John got up and walked towards the bathroom. He wasn't a bit tired, he just couldn't take the shit his twisting stomach and aching heart was giving him. He would try to get himself tired by fighting the urge to shower.

"Good night."

"Mhm."

What have you been doing?

 

**_ Week 7 _ **

He doesn't look at Sherlock, because it hurts. The doctor goes on without looking at the man he sometimes fantasies about because he simply can't. He actually feels guilty at first; not looking at Sherlock in the eye when he's talking to him, not looking up at him to answer a question, but then he gets used to it and starts to think that it's okay if he's trying to keep it away.

Lestrade calls. New case. Sherlock goes, John doesn't; Sherlock doesn't mind. _That's strange_. John thinks after witnessing his friend shrug at the rejection.

John has to take a shower.

 

**_ Week 9 _ **

John often wonders why he has a constant battle between his own layers. His anxiety is back, but he tries to ignore it. Just like he ignores Sherlock's eyes when solving a case. No he doesn't think about it. Thinking hurts. John has to be strong. Hell, he was in an _Army_. Is it possible for a person to change his character completely from time to time? That's what happened he assumes. He wonders if any of his friends notice. He wonders if he looks different when he's examining a body, or when drinking coffee. Does Sherlock notice? His throat fills with a giant ball of anxiety whenever he thinks about it. He tries to ignore whatever thoughts are related to Sherlock, but that would mean he has to ignore everything in his life. He wouldn't call it desperate, just simply another _phase_ a human goes through. At least he hopes that's what it is. Sherlock has solved a sum of five cases during the last week and today is Tuesday. They get no calls from Lestrade or Donovan. John's not surprised that Donovan doesn't call anymore. She told him that Sherlock was a bloody psychopath in their first interaction for god's sake.

Even though there are no distractions for him when Sherlock's home, he still tries to make some progress. John Watson actually tries to figure out his sexuality which he oddly doesn't feel that anxious about. He goes to a couple of gay bars, but he can't ignore his obnoxious feelings about wanting to have feelings for any other bloke than his flat mate. It's obvious that he fancies his friend, but maybe not that obvious after all. Nobody has given him shit about it. He assumes everyone thinks they're shagging anyway. He doesn't feel good about it, but he tries to bite the anxiety down. That would make things less awkward and uncomfortable when they drink tea together in the morning.

Sherlock talks. Mostly saying words that John has heard at least a thousand times. "I'm bored, call Lestrade, see if there's been any murders lately." He says that with a little evil spark in his eyes, which, _hell_ , makes John want to scrub the feeling out of his chest. It won't be long that he realizes feelings don't just wash off.

"Tea?" He asks Sherlock one morning who has his eyes focused on his laptop, which isn't entirely unusual, but John can see a little smirk on one side of his mouth, which again, isn't that unusual. But maybe John is jealous. Jealous of a laptop.

"Found a new case?" John ignores that Sherlock didn't answer his first question.

Sherlock doesn't move. The only movements happening, are his pupils moving up and down screen, and his chest going up and down with every breath. John tries not think about the second part.

Usually when John asks Sherlock question he's ignored, but he always asks again. This time, he gives up, but sees Sherlock jerking his head up to John and take a sigh. "Yes, without sugar."

 _Right_. So he does actually uses his ears to hear things. If John was to know Sherlock for a day, he would've taken this behavior as an act of selfishness, but he's used to it by now. So he makes Sherlock tea and tries again.

"Any new bodies we need to examine?"

Sherlock shakes his head lightly. _Right. Right._

John feels a little anger bubbling up in him. He tries to swallow it. He sips his tea. John always likes his tea with two sugars. Not that sweet to give away the smell and taste of tea itself, and not too bitter to make his lips purse together. Sherlock doesn't purse his lips together when he sips his tea. John feels himself staring at Sherlock's lips and how they still have a little smile on them. He tries to ignore it, he really tries, but his tea is perfect and Sherlock's hair is super curly from sleeping. So he stares. If Sherlock is going to ignore him, he doesn't have to worry about him catching John staring at his lips or his curls. He can stare as long as he bloody well pleases and Sherlock's not—

"John?"

John's eyes dart upwards to meet Sherlock's. He isn't smirking anymore. Just a face of I-want-you-to-listen-to-what-I-have-to-say. So John clears his throat and responds with a little "hm?"

Sherlock puts his laptop beside him on the couch. John still can't see the screen.

"We have a reservation for a restaurant tonight."

And _oh_. John has chosen the wrong time to take a sip of his tea. He almost spills hot liquid all over Sherlock's face. Almost. He swallows hard before opening his mouth that has already dried.

"Sorry?"

"A restaurant. It's an Italian one. We have a reservation for 9pm. I assume you don't have plans since you work with me, and we don't have any new cases, so I am definitely right if I say you don't have any plans scheduled for tonight." Pause. "Or probably, the rest of the week."

 _What was that?_ John feels like he needs to ask, because first, an Italian restaurant? _What the hell?_ And second, was Sherlock _smiling_? John Watson is officially going to lose his mind. It's not even the fact that he fancies Sherlock that makes him feel weird and uncomfortable, it's the fact that Sherlock Holmes was telling him that he wants to go out and sit at a table and order food. Interaction? Not Sherlock's thing, but wait a minute, is this even Sherlock? Or did Mycroft find a clone of him to prank John. That thought is so possible that John feels like he needs to test this man to believe he is the real Sherlock Holmes. Confused and sort of dazed John asks "What case is this for? Do they serve human flesh in their food or what?" He knows that Sherlock has just said they don't have a new case, but he's confused out of his mind.

John feels something pull inside him when he sees Sherlock's face fill with obvious anxiety. He's not even sure he knows all the expressions of this man.

"Oh, it's not for a case, we're— we're meeting someone there..."

John nods. _Right_. He wants to ask who. He wants to know more, but frankly it's just because he wants to have an excuse to look at Sherlock in the face. Sherlock grabs his laptop again and the smile is gone. Back to normal. _Back to normal?_

John takes a shower, drinks a full glasse of white wine because he's nervous, tries to distract himself with old newspapers, and also tries to win back his appetite. Sherlock plays a couple of pieces with his violin. They don't talk. John knows he'll go crazy if he doesn't talk to any one right at that moment. _Sherlock'll do._

"Mind telling who we're going to meet?"

Sherlock stops playing. _Immediate responses? Not Sherlock's thing either._ He puts the bow down but keeps the violin on his shoulder. He turns around, still in his blue robe and still having a mess of a hair. When he finally puts the violin down, he picks up a paper from his desk and starts walking towards John and well, usually John would get nervous by now, but the alcohol in his system is what's telling his mind to relax. _Wine, John? Really? Impossible._

Sherlock unfolds the paper and John can see Sherlock's smudge handwriting on it. He's seen Mycroft ask for a "list" from Sherlock before, but he never bothered to find out more. Frankly he believed since Sherlock lives in his mind palace, he didn't need actual pen or paper to remember things. _Odd_.

He hears Sherlock mumble something to himself. John tries to block his several other thoughts and focus on the man in front of him.

Sherlock opens his mouth slightly like he wants to say something. His eyes still on the paper. If John didn't know Sherlock's focusing face, he'd think his friend might've had a stroke. Sherlock throws a quick glance at John and folds the paper in a quick motion. John can't see his own face, but he can feel the mask of confusion that's covering his face. He tilts his head a bit, waiting for Sherlock to do something. He can feel a tiny bubble of anger forming in his throat. He's talked to a therapist before, but it wasn't specifically for controlling his anger. There's a blurry memory in his mind, of someone telling him it's 'a post-war thing'. Doesn't sound like a very reliable person, judging from the way he remembers how they've paraphrased their sentences. But who is he to judge, he lives with a consulting detective who sparks flies in his eyes when he hears there's been a murder in town.

It feels like they've been standing there in the kitchen for hours now. He looks at the clock. 8:25. _Right_.

"I assume we have to get ready for—dinner?"

Sherlock blinks. _Back to reality, I suppose._

"Ah, yes! I'll give you the needed information when we get there."

Then he's gone to pick up his coat.

 _Impossible_.  
  
They don't talk in the cab, precisely because John doesn't ask any more questions. The drive is not too far, just a good five minutes or so. Just as John is beginning to think about the paper that Sherlock bad in his hand, they pull up at a restaurant that looks rather posh; for Sherlock, that is. John caught a glimpse of square, white tables, and tall waiters all in expensive looking and well-ironed uniforms. John could bet his life that each of them is influent in at least 10 languages. It's so, so odd.

"Bit fancy, but, it'll do."

"Wha—why is it "a bit fancy" Sherlock? What's going on? I suppose I deserve an explanation since I'm involved in this—whatever this is."

He can't go all night with Sherlock mumbling about this and not bothering to explain. Sherlock still ignores him and instead flashes him a small smile. John is going to lose his mind.

After they've sat at the table and ordered –which Sherlock acts normal about, like he does this for a job everyday–, Sherlock starts; "Well, I believe you do deserve an explanation after all."

' _After all?' Jesus Christ._

"First off, I have to thank you John. For all the times you've helped me, and, well, protected me."

"All right, see I thought that Mycroft has sent a clone to test me in some ways, and I had that thought about an hour ago, but now I'm sure this is a test. Okay you win, I'm trolled, now can we get back to our normal lives?"

John is trying to make as much as eye contact he can, but he can't help but notice that Sherlock is clutching a first full of the white cloth on the table. Hard, yet not that noticeable.

He sighs. "John, I— all right, I know you might not be very familiar to this side of my personality, but I'm being—trying to be friendly here—"

Sherlock cuts himself off but sighing again and letting go of the cloth that was now clearly wrinkled. He then continues "Well, I suppose you have noticed that I've not been home lately—"

_Since when we're calling it 'home'?_

John is too distracted.

"Ah, I see, started thinking already..." John hears Sherlock mumble. "Oh, for god's sake Sherlock, don't put on all that mysterious detective act thing. I've been intimidated enough. One can simply get used to anything."

"Well, I'll get right into it then." Sherlock takes a deep breath before saying the next sentence. "I have a brain tumor and I'm probably going to die within 5 weeks. I found out myself about a week ago and the first person I told was Molly, because, well, frankly I have no reason, but she sort of, told me what to do and now I'm basically trying to be nice because she said that's what people tend to, do, when they're dying so I thought I'd tell you second, just in case the tumor decides to, kill me sooner."

He leans back and stares at John. If John was a poet, he would write a poem about Sherlock's shoulders and how they relax when Sherlock leans back, but, John is no poet, and his brain doesn't tend to think poetically at the moment. So, right. Sherlock is dying.

Should John hate himself when the first thing he thinks of after hearing his friend say that he's going to die within weeks is "So we're not meeting anyone and this is not a date."? Probably. But, the thing is, John knows he's going to lose his sanity when his detective friend dies, but it's just like one of those moments that a man runs out of food in the middle of a desert. He is desperate and wishing for the time to turn back so he can undo his decisions and choose some place else to "rest his mind". It's like when a man gets arrested for doing something he didn't even mean to do, and there's a moment where all he can do is react with a laugh and say "you're kidding, right?". John has plenty to think of already. He would call bullshit on Sherlock's news, but he knows him too well to know Sherlock doesn't have a think-of-it-then-you'll-get-it sense of humor. He's sort of an arsehole, and he's not scared of death, that's why John has to come to his senses and order his mind not to laugh. He has to order himself to believe these news. He remembers when he was young had the flu and had to get a shot. He could feel the liquid medicine spread inside his body and under his skin, and he remembers nothing but everything going dark after that. It didn't even happen quickly, it was in slow motion, John had thought, but he knew that everything was the same around him, obviously. Now though, John starts to feel an unpleasant numbness spread in his body. He doesn't know if he's going to pass out or just sit there, expressionless, and in sheer disbelief. He wonders if Sherlock knows that he isn't feeling sad yet. Does Sherlock expect him to show some kind of emotion or empathy? Does Sherlock think his colleague has gone oblivious all of a sudden? His whole life John has been told not to care about what other people think about him and "not to live for people". He's been told that humans have full control over their minds. " _If you're brave enough, you can stop your mind from wandering off where you don't want it to."_

He's never felt like he had to force himself into doing something he hates to do. Sure, he's done it, forcing himself into something I mean, but he's shown the middle finger to his mind –literally– and have never actually tried to drag his mind with him. It's always a quick decision for John to do what he thinks is right. He never thought of it as "bravery" or "controlling his mind". He knows a battle when he sees one. He's going to lose a loved one in a couple of weeks and the fascinating part is the loved one doesn't even know how loved he is yet. Of course, John is not going to confess his love for him and pull off an act of romance and say "Oh, it's going to be okay. I love you." That's what a writer does to a movie and its characters. There are no cameras or stage lights around. This is not a play. This is not a movie. He is exactly like the wrinkled piece of cloth in the middle of a sea of ironed, soft silk. John is not a poet, but he would be if he wasn't elided into a pile of flesh and bones. He doesn't need to be dead to be a poet, though, it'd be enough for him if he was not himself. He wonders how ambiguous the result of this conversation is for Sherlock, because frankly he feels like the one who's making the other wait for him. More of him is numb now. God he wished he could hear his own heart pound to make sure a bit of this is actually real and he is a person living his life in an Italian restaurant that he doesn't even know the name of. John tilts his head a bit, but nothing seems to be moving in front of him. Or beside him. Or behind him. He can still see Sherlock, the unfamiliar look of kindness there, isn't helping him a bit. He read a book once called "Back to Reality" and honestly he doesn't remember much but blurry pages and the glasses of water he had between reading chapter 16, but he remembers that it was about a man who lost his family in an earthquake and took it rather hard. He spent six and half years in an asylum and he thought he'd never be back to normal again, but apparently there was a doctor who was sent undercover in each cell to talk about the meaning of life. John remembers reading the paragraph "17 people died that day. They all started hurting themselves and some violently attacked the doctor. I was one of the 3 who survived. We were known as "Sanes" after that day. They led us go, after 20 days of constantly talking to the doctor and managing to survive."

He wonders if he's gonna have to talk to a therapist again. The smooth jazz that was echoing isn't there anymore. There is in fact, not a small sound to be heard. John wonders if he has to be performing angioplasty surgery on himself, right here right now, because he knows he has the gift to live for now, but not hearing his own heart pound is a sign of concern.  
Again, he knows he'll be losing his sanity in—what was it? Five? Yes, five weeks, but he secretly hopes to be sent to the same asylum as the writer of Back to Normal. It is quite interesting for him that he hasn't thought about Sherlock surviving this tumor somehow. He also finds it interesting that he believes in miracles, but still isn't hoping for anything to happen to Sherlock to stop him from dying. Frankly, all of this has caught him off guard and if you told yesterday John that the man he fancies has an incurable disease, he would probably flip and not think a bit ethically. If John was an author, the readers would probably find out what a torturer he is within two chapters, because he wouldn't give the reader what they want. It's not even dry humor and he's not even intending to be mean in anyway, it's just simply the way he is. So John decides to do this his way.

The food arrives and it's probably been half an hour since something has exploded inside John, but since he's going to do this his way, he starts to eat and doesn't talk. Or think. Or make eye contact. Sherlock does the same.

_When and why did we order bloody food?_

Well, maybe John thinks. Just a little.

It's a bit strange to leave a restaurant after having only one course of meal, but John is taking control over his mind, and well, he should push the bits of fear to the back of his throat, where he's forced down his food.

He is hearing things now, the cabbie, Sherlock clearing his throat, people walking on the pavement, and his thoughts, which still sound sane.

It's a much shorter drive for John to get back in his character and get out of the skin of this expressionless, pale, thinking man. It's fine though, considering the fact that he just had a meal that he doesn't have the slightest memory of. They pull up in front of 221B Baker Street and John wants to laugh a little, because about an hour ago, he didn't know that he'd be moving out in a couple of weeks. He doesn't have the slightest doubt that he'll tear the walls down after Sherlock's death. John opens the cab's door.

 _Rather warm night for London_ , he thinks.

If this was a play, John would be in the spotlight now, perhaps saying or singing his thoughts aloud, but this is no play and John is no protagonist, so he starts following Sherlock into their flat. He would try saying something to ease the obvious tension between them if he didn't have a plan, but now things are a notch different from before, so as they enter the room, John waits for Sherlock to take his coat off and then in a rather smooth motion, pins him against a wall and kisses him. Just that unexpected and shocking.

Despite the rough action that took place before the kiss, it was a good one, John had thought. If he was a poet he would describe it as a panacea, which would be quite dramatic and striking, of some sort, but then again, John is no poet.

For John it didn't feel like a sexual act of any kind. He hadn't thought about how he would feel about the sudden contact and honestly, he silently thanks himself for that, because he knows that would've made him nervous. Way too nervous for him to take control over both his actions and his brain.

He thought about keeping his eyes open, though. As much as he believed this wasn't a dream and he didn't need a shower to wash the feeling off, he wanted to see it happen with his own eyes. Mostly because he wanted to keep sane for an hour after Sherlock's death. John was a machine and this was his fuel.

The noise that Sherlock made as soon as he felt John push him against the wall had scared John a bit. John is a fast thinker and at that moment, something in the back of his mind started screaming " _You absolute twat! This man is getting closer to his death every second —which we all are, precisely— and he's just told you about it. Is this really what you're choosing to do?"_

Of course he had started a battle in his mind as soon as the screams got louder, but as bad as he wanted to stop the screams himself, he wanted to feel Sherlock's lips and note every detail about him. That'd be his fuel. John is trying to keep himself sane. _Poor sod._

"Stop thinking."

John's eyes flipped open to see a man whom he's been in ethical love with, but this time, he's talking directly to John. And they're kissing. John is giving everything to stop the numbness from spreading and passing out.

"I said stop thinking."

"Sherlock—"

"No."

Sherlock used the time he'd gotten by distracting John to take the lead. On the clock, it's been 13 seconds straight since John had started kissing him. Now Sherlock was kissing John back. _Am I going insane already?_

In John's brain it's always been a great moment of disbelief when Sherlock finally kisses him. He had always pictured himself smiling at that moment, and Sherlock too. Now that he is seeing and experiencing it in real life, he feels something towards those daydreams that can't quite be described as embarrassing, or shameful, or—

"John for God's sake, did you not hear me? Shut your mind off for a second. Let me—let us have this." Sherlock said in between the kiss.

So John does, because he is still intimidated by this man and he could swear Sherlock knows how many people are walking in the pavement below them now, and he would trust him right away even if he said the Queen is at their doorstep at the moment.

Shutting his mind off actually helps John to respond to Sherlock's actions. He grips two fists full of Sherlock's shirt and presses against him. In between kissing Sherlock, John thinks if it's too dramatic to kiss someone with passion and give them a hint of what you feel. He can't say he doesn't care what happens if he did, but he does anyway, turning the gentle and careful kisses to something more—idyllic.

At the back of his mind, John knows what happens when the kiss deepens. In fact, it's always been the same for him. He is not afraid of sex, but it'll be too much to handle and to think about when Sherlock's gone. God. Sherlock. Gone. The words are too far yet too close. He also knows there's a giant ball of emotions ready to hit him, so he kisses Sherlock harder, and once again realizes that this is the man whom he's in love with. Correction, _dangerously_ in love with.

Sherlock is agile and charming. With his mouth and hands that are carefully ghosting over John's elbows. John might write a book and use a lot of big words to describe Sherlock. "He is maudlin, but he is no liquor. He's a wide world of conversations and sentences, not tête-à-tête."

Yes. John will write a book about this man.

He breaks the kiss and looks into Sherlock's eye. They're glassy, and tired, and—needy?

"Please." Sherlock pants. "John I know it'd be hard when I—when I'm not here, but, please John. I can't believe I get to have this. To have you—" he cuts himself off by kissing John's neck and, okay. John is thinking again.

He thinks it's not fair. He's tried to swallow his feelings and emotions, just to keep sane and safe, but Sherlock is like a demon created specifically to break John down into small and smaller pieces every other second, until he's gone. In John's mind, there's sloppy emotions everywhere and in John's hands, well, there's Sherlock. Dropping John's coat on the floor and unbuttoning his shirt.

John is turned on and annoyed.

_But it's supposed be a little special. I can't remember you if this leads to sex. I will lose my fucking sanity in this night and not after your death. Your death Sherlock, your death! Want me to remind you that you have a brain tumor and you're going to be dead in **weeks**? Sherlock don't do this. I can't keep sane. I can't remember your colors if you take your clothes off. You're fascinating, I'm aware, but Sherlock don't do this. Don't let this lead to sex, you're the only one who can stop this now. You told me to shut off my mind. It's off. I can't think. It's shallow and repeated and old and boring as you always say. Don't let me remember you like this. Sherlock read my mind. Read my bloody mind you lunatic. Isn't that what you do? Always? See I remember what you do. Stop this. I can't—_

  
"John?"

Cough.

"John?"

Cough, blink, blink.

"John? Are you well?"

Blink, blink. Lights. Oh, never mind, close your eyes.

"John, love, can you speak to me?"

"Sherlock?" John's panting.

"No, love. It's Mindy. You're nurse, eh?"

_Hang on. A woman? What are you doing here? Where's Sherlock?_

"Sherlock?" John half-shouts.

"Shh... I have your morphine right here. You were panting in your sleep. Had that dream again?"

"Yes. yes I did." _Again? Piss off, oh and, what in the fuck is going on?_

"The doctor said you might want to read your journal if you have a hard time remembering things." John feels a sudden calm loom over him. "Here you go. Call me anytime if you need anything."

Blink, blink. John hears footsteps exiting the room. Blink. He tries too lift his head.

"Ah, bloody hell!"

He can feel every throbbing vain in his neck start hurting. Bad idea. He tries lifting one arm slowly so if there's any HURT! attack, he can get over it now. Left arm? Safe. Right arm?

"Ah!"

Not safe. Right arm not safe. There are blinking circles everywhere, but he can make out a table just inches away from where his bed ends. It's a broad wooden table that seems to be full of his belongings. A couple of books, two empty cups, a bowl that seems to be filled with a liquid of some sort, a box of tissues, a pair of glasses, and a pack of cigarettes. _A pack of cigarettes? Either I'm not dying, or someone wants me to die sooner._

He's still in a post-dream haze when he remembers what the nurse had said. " _My journal"_. he likes writing for his blog's readers about Sherlock and their adventures... Sherlock. It hits him like a hurricane hits a town that has been told it'll have a couple of sunny days. He was kissing Sherlock. He had courage and he was deciding whether to have—well. John needs a distraction. _Wait. Did we shag? Is he dead now? Did I lose my sanity?_

He needs to know a lot of things.

There's a moment when he thinks he should do as the nurse said and call her to ask her these chaotic questions he has, but he hesitates and decides to trust himself on this, so he tries to find the journal that's apparently his. Of course it is a little hard to try and actually search for something when there is no way you can move your head or one of you arms, but John is an army man and—is he an army man though? Or did he dream of another life while asleep?

He tries to find the journal.

Finally, after what feels like hours of trying, he manages to reach the little pile of books next to his bed and find a book with the words "Journal" inked on it. The book is dark green and old and smells like an used loofah. John doesn't bother to remember how he knows the smell of an old loofah, instead he opens the book and is immediately informed that it must be older than he's thought. The papers are turning yellow and there are smudges of ink everywhere. He feels the strength to lift his other arm up. _The morphine is spreading rather slow_. He holds the books loosely with his right hand and starts to turn the page over. He doesn't bother to read yet, squinting his eyes seem like too much to do when he isn't able to move his head. Each page is filled with long paragraphs and the only words he can make out without trying too hard, are "Back", "Sanity", and "Sherlock". The words spin in circles in his head. _Back, sanity, Sherlock_. He decides to take "Sherlock" as a hint of him being real. Good. It wasn't all his imagination then. He probably needs the glasses on the table to be able to read the book, but frankly he doubts that even is his handwriting and the right information from his –possibly– past. He tries to read some more and when doesn't succeed, decides to get some sleep. He wouldn't really want to if he thought about it more, but he will let the chemicals inside his body win this round.

_Why am I on medication?_

When he wakes up, he's feeling an unbearable pain and sweating like a pig.

 

**_ Week 1 _ **

"Mr. Watson, I need to know what you remember from last night. Please if you remember any details from previous days, nights, weeks or months, don't hesitate. Your information will help both us, and you."

Cough, blink, sigh.

"Please do take your time for giving us a full report. We need to know what state you are in, emotionally and mentally. This will tell us if you're ready to be sent home. You've been here a very long time and I suppose you don't like being here, it was written in your journal."

 _Rude,_ John thinks. He wants to mouth it at the blurry gray figure in front of him, but the way this person sounds makes John want to get whatever he wants him to do over with as soon as possible.

"Do you mind telling me where I am?" He keeps back from saying 'fuck'. It only takes him half a second to notice how tired and weak he sounds.

"You are in the Cabral Mental Institute. You have been here for 20 months and 17 days to be exact. You came here because you were reported to struggle with mental and health issues. Our corporation has taken care of you and recently you have shown signs of getting surprisingly better. We brought a doctor named Dr. Frank Starling and he's given us a report that tells us you have mental balance and are allowed to leave the corporation. In easier words, I'm here to send a report that lets you get out of here."

The figure shifts to the right and John starts making out the shape of a man with broad shoulders in a gray suit, expression unreadable.

"Of course it is completely fine if you find yourself dealing with a slight amnesia. I want you to know that it is utterly fine if you have a hard time remembering things or identifying places or even objects. These are all the side effects of the medicines that we've given to you. I suppose you don't recall that you got in a fight about a month ago and was sent to the hospital of our so-called-asylum."

"I got into a fight and you're letting me go? Doesn't that make you concerned about my 'mental state'?"

The deep-voiced man makes a noise that John can only take as a laugh and he says "Well, Mr. Watson you should know that the fight wasn't a result of your actions in any way. A patient confronted you and thankfully you were smart enough not to fight back. We tried to protect you, but the group who attacked you were extremely violent and by the time we got to you, you've had passed out. I understand you're still recovering and might not be in the best place to answer our questions, but we are informed that it is of your will to get home as soon as possible."

John scoffs. "Did you read that from my journal, too?" He's suddenly too tired to give a damn.

"I hope you understand that we need to know every detail our patients think of. We need to be aware of—"

"Their mental and emotional state. I got it." John pauses. "Now, what questions do you have. I don't promise that I'll answer each correctly because, obviously, amnesia, but I'll try." John says and rests his hands on his lap. He's sitting in a wheelchair and is trying very hard to try and hide the mask of confusion covering his skull. His typical—

"What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

Ah yes, John's typical Tuesday.

There's a second before the man in the gray suit starts talking again, that John hears a symphony in the back of his head. He's too tired to think but he remembers a blurry mix of green hospital uniforms and closing doors. John tries to think and figure out why he isn't all that confused at all. He doesn't trust any of his senses, or the people around him even a little. Hell, he hasn't figure out what the room around him looks like.

Before he has any more time to remember anything, the man says "Very well Dr. Watson, most of these questions are inspired by the details you've written in your journal, so I just want you to be honest with me and feel free to ask any type of questions you'd like." He reaches for a yellow sheet that seems to be the question sheet. He adjusts his glasses and asks "Dr. Watson, do you know anyone with the name, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock?_

_Sherlock stop unbuttoning my goddamn shirt. I am five seconds from passing out. Stop this, stop it._

"Although Mr. Watson, we don't want you to feel uncomfortable or troubled with any of our questions, so please tell us whenever you don't want to answer a question."

_I can feel you. I can see you. I don't have the courage. I am not brave Sherlock. You have to stop. You're not inside of my body to feel how ridiculously I'm melting into your touch. Don't you feel me shiver?_

_"John. I want this and you do too. Don't try and push it away. Don't be in your head. I'm here and I want to touch you. Don't lie and say you don't want to. You're in your head too much. Don't you want to have this? Don't push me away John, I am not in your head. I am in front of you and this is real. Way too real for you to push away with rejection."_

_But it's not fair! You're taking me and my thoughts and my senses and my sanity! Sherlock you don't understand! You're hunting my thoughts day and night! Read me! Read my bloody thoughts!_

_"John I know you want me in your mind. Let go of your imaginary Sherlock, give in to the real Sherlock that's here and wants you! Stop it and talk to me. This is real life and I'm here with you! Do you hear me? I want you!"_

White.

  
_Who created Mona Lisa?_

_  
Why her?_

_  
I wish I was Picasso._

_  
I would paint you Sherlock._

 

Green.

  
_Ah, how great would it be!_

_  
I could give it to you on your birthday._

 

Sliver.

  
_I wish you didn't call them._

 

**_ Week 4 _ **

Unsettling, unraveling, unimaginable.

John's senses were dead.

As boring as it was, he still had to open his eyes. But he didn't, though. So he moved his ring finger. Just to test the waters. Then he heard it.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

And he heard more.

Whispers. Bump. Clattering of shoes with the ground.

More.

Deep voice. Slow pace.

"John?"

Then he heard the oxygen mask.

"Dr. Watson?"

_Ah alright. Opening my eyes at last._

John sees seeing black and white. A lot of white. Then there was a compact mass of blackness.

"Dr. Watson can you hear me?" The deep voice says softly.

_Is this the part were I move my finger to say 'yes'? Precisely._

John tries moving his finger again.

Tired and dizzy, his vision goes clear and he makes out a man out of blackness. Like a car that starts its engine, John lets out a sigh and feels his brain starting to figure out who the guy was. Part of his brain sensed that the man looked familiar. Deep voice and broad shoulders—.

"I'm Rob Reynolds. You might remember, I was to ask some questions from you in order for us to let you go. Three weeks ago—"

 _Damnit_ , John thought. 

"—we didn't even get through the first question. You passed out and has been in a coma since then." Then he pauses, realizing he probably shouldn't be talking this much to a patient who's just woken up after being in a bloody coma for weeks. "Pardon me, I know the information is a lot to handle right now. I'll talk to you sometime later." There's another pause, then he's gone. Too quick for John to see the clear motion happening.

_So I passed out._

He doesn't remember any useful details from -apparently- three weeks ago and his conversation with Rob. It's just like remembering one of your friends from high school and not knowing what class you had together. A bit annoying that he doesn't know more about that day, but he guesses the question might've been too hard for him to handle at the moment. _Oh well._ He closes his eyes again.

 

**_ Week 2 _ **

_It's been three days since I've met Dr. Watson. First when he was introduced to the corporation, I felt sorry for the man, because he is a doctor himself and it's a shame for him to be in a place that people often identity as an insane asylum. People here are not insane, they just struggle with mental issues. Some are curable and some aren't, but we try our best to treat everyone with civility. He probably has no idea what he's doing here, or what's happened to him. Poor man. Although I am not one to come through for anyone or give them special treatment, I will try not to destroy this man with the news that he has to be made aware of. He is going through amnesia and has obscene dreams, the medication is hard on him, he was attacked by a man he's admitted he is in love with, and his system keeps giving up, so I don't think my questions will be any good for him. He is in a coma and all three doctors that have visited him say he won't wake up for at least two weeks. I never understood why Mr. Holmes did this. John needs protection, and I'm lying if I say I am not scared for him to be taken care of again, by Sherlock Holmes._

 

** _Week 3_ **

_Occasionally I feel lucky to have this job. Sometimes seeing a family form and get together again, is worth the hard times I have to go through with some patients. I don't know how to feel about today. I feel lucky to be following Mr. Watson's case, but on the other hand, having to talk to both him and Mr. Holmes is very hard. I had a meeting with Mr. Holmes today and it was not pleasant at all; seeing that big man cry in front of me, while he confesses things he's never said to anyone, on a record tape._

_My family, my co-workers, my friends, never described or known me as an emotional person. I am not stone cold to feelings, but I tend to hide them very well and empty my expression of any feelings. It's what my job requires. Mr. Watson's case is the first case that had me feeling depressed for two hours today. The doctors say Mr. Watson's health state is getting better each day, in fact, the coma is helping his body recharge and get its power back. I will talk to him as soon as he wakes up._

 

**_ Week 5 _ **

_"—Rob haven't come down to see me in a week and from what I know, I've been in a coma for three weeks. I'm on strong medication and it looks like my body isn't cooperating very well, since I've thrown up several times after taking my pills, or getting shots. I feel tired and dizzy most of the time. When I'm feeling a little better, I write. They've taken my old journal, I try to survive on writing on these napkins. Although I have to throw them away at the end of the day, because these nurses and doctors check every bloody thing in my room at night."_

_"I don't understand. How have I been here for alst two years? It feels like I've kissed Sherlock just yesterday. I don't even know if he's dead or alive. One of the doctors here told me that the reason I passed out and went into a coma was because Rob asked me a question about Sherlock. I do miss him very much, but I'm too bloody confused to think about him. His face is always there when I close my eyes, though. I still remember his glassy eyes when I looked up at him. I wonder if I passed out when he started touching me, or if we did actually have sex and my amnesia doesn't let me remember any details. It is quite annoying to be able to hear my own heart beat go faster and get louder in a machine next to me, whenever I think about him."_

John hears the door click open and puts away his pen. He starts clutching the napkin as soon as he sees who's walked in.

"Mr. Watson!" Rob says. For a second, just for a second John had wished it was Sherlock, but then he silently humored himself and tried to prepare for the possible information Rob wanted to give him.

Rob takes a seat next to John's bed and sets his briefcase on his lap. He's wearing a dark purple suit, with a gold tie today. _Too posh for a day at work_. John thought, but then again, he doesn't remember when he last drank a mojito, so what does he know of posh?

"How are you doing today, Mr. Watson?" Rob asks. John likes the ring of his deep voice.

"Confused, just like the previous weeks."

Rob's smile makes John even more confused, because he sees a hint of pain, which he doesn't know why is there.

"Well I hope what I have helps you a bit with whatever you're confused about." He opens his briefcase to takes out a little paper bag that seems to be wrapped around a rectangular object, and puts it on the table next to John's bed. John looks at Rob and he nods. Had been given the permission, he reaches for the paper bag.

Frankly, John doesn't expect to see a shining ball that has the answer to all his questions come out of the paper bag, but he doesn't expect to see a tape either. He wants to make fun of it for a second, then he turns the tape around and his breath hitches as soon as he sees the title:

"Sherlock Holmes. Date: 6.24"

If this was a play, John would've dropped the tape on the ground and look at Rob dramatically. Everything would happen as if it's in slow-motion and he would've heard a dozen of audiences sigh at how powerful the moment was, but this was still no play, and John still isn't the protagonist, so he hardens his grip on the tape and tries to hold on to it for dear life.

"The date—" he manages to say after he's caught a bit of air in his lungs. "—it's a week ago."

The machine on John's side is going crazy and he feels light-headed. He's not even sure if he wasn't feeling like this before, all he can think of right now is what in the fuck has happened to his life. He can't think poetically now, he needs to know more.

But before he can form any sentences, Rob gets up and says "Dr. Watson you need to take your medicine right now! Your heart won't be able to take this much pressure." He goes down to get his briefcase and all John is thinking is _NO YOU BASTARD. YOU WILL GIVE ME ANSWERS RIGH HERE, RIGHT NOW!_ So he puts all his energy into one arm and grasps Rob's hand and practically starts yelling.

"I need to know Rob! I need to know what this tape is about. If you leave now, you won't come back and I don't have the slightest doubt about that. Help me remember my life! The name of this tape says Sherlock Holmes, and I won't be wasting energy to tell you how much he means to me and how he can save my life, but you have to help me! I'm fine, really. I can deal with whatever is in this tape but if you go, I _will_ lose my bloody mind—" he desperately starts panting. "—forever this time."

There's a moment that Rob just stares at John and makes him think that he's not helping in any way, but then, when a group of nurses rush into the room, his thought changes.

"Dr. Watson is fine. There's nothing for you to be concerned about, I'll take care of the situation."

When none of them moves, Rob gives them a look that John would only describe as a "Death Stare", and the poor nurses get out as fast as they got in. John lets go of Rob's hand that he's been holding onto this whole time. Rob practically collapses into his chair once the room is empty. John can tell from the expression on his face that he didn't expect himself to do such a thing.

He leans back on the bed and murmurs a 'thank you' to Rob, realizing how tired he is. His brain is screaming Sherlock! And his mouth wants to do the same, but his voice is weak and low.

"Let me hear it. I can manage."

Rob takes a couple of seconds before he nods and gets up to bring a tape recorder for John.

**_ Week 6 _ **

_John Watson is dead. Quite gracefully, actually. He didn't suffer, despite all the pain he was feeling. He didn't show any signs of getting worse or better, but his body wasn't stiff. The doctors say the medication was starting to work and his body was starting to react well. He was sick, but his death shocked us all, because death wasn't something to remind us of John Watson's illness._

_Mindy admitted that when she entered his room to check on him, the first thing she heard before the heart monitor going clear, was Sherlock Holmes' words on the tape. She heard the word "—you." and then, it ended and took John with it_

_Mr. Holmes on the other hand, doesn't know a thing about John's death. No one has the heart to tell him the news, between us employees I mean. If Mrs. Turner is made aware of the situation, she will most definitely have a chat with Mr. Holmes. Everyone knows the boss takes it well._

_I have never been the one who preens and primps and sheds a tear for great romances or soul hurting tragedies, if that's even a thing. I am though, a moral person and I can admit and John Watson wasn't the one to be an example of immorality or of a vice person, even though I could sense that he tried to hide his sense of poetry pretty well and in fact, he did. Until I found the little crumpled napkin that fell out of his hand the day I gave him the tape. It's not a work of genius, but I would trade my most poetic belongings for it. It says:_

_"Vices and virtues_  
I spend my time where I'm a stranger to  
Where I wasn't aware existed   
The clock is my enemy  
And I try to ease the tension with air  
If you could hear my lungs scream,  
You would faint  
And that's what life is about.  
Cold  
Warm  
Freezing again.  
Call it a fever  
I'd call it death's glare  
And I am ready  
Ready indeed   
For the soft embrace of the wind  
Where I can find the lost  
And the stolen  
And the given  
Cold   
Warm  
Alas the heated conversation stays frozen  
Alas!  
Alas our minds are less caring to the touch  
Alas!"

_  
Maybe it is a work of genius after all..._

 

**_ Week 7 _ **

_"I love him. I am a changed man and I love him. I've never told him, or anyone else, but I love him. My brain is incredible and I never beg to forfeit my astonishing sense of observation, but John Watson changed the way I thought and well, that isn't something anyone can do. I could never get sick of him and his actions, he is full of surprises. I remember him telling me that I surprise him with most of the things I do, which was again, a new surprise to m—"_

"FUCK!" Sherlock screamed and tore the paper in half.

"Fuck! No! Wrong! Bloody fuck!" He crumpled each half until his knuckles went white, then throw them across the room next to the bin that was now filled with crumpled pieces of paper and wasted medicine.

Realizing how much energy he just wasted, Sherlock leaned back in his chair and decided to wait for Rob. He didn't really like him. Frankly, when Sherlock told him that he is disqualified for his job and should get out of his face, Rob had just sat there and smiled.

"Bloody maniac." Sherlock mumbled to himself.

He knew the walls of his room were soundproof and the only connection he could've had with the outside world was a security camera on the ceiling, but he stilled mumbled and whispered and moaned.

He tries to remember when his last meeting with Rob was. The tape recording session. _Ah, yes._ He had cried and sniffled and got mad, just like the things people do in funerals. Sherlock didn't even know what that tape was for. He was scared though, in case Rob had decided to give the tape to the doctors or the counselors or even worse, John. God, he wanted to tear the walls down when he thought about John listening to the tape. It was all _wrong_ and _unreal_  if he listened to the tape first, instead of hearing the words come of Sherlock's mouth.

During his staying in the asylum, he had never regretted calling them that night, the night that Sherlock still replays in his mind every single night. Or day. Or hour. He never wanted John to suffer, he never, ever, wanted him to doubt himself and the amazing power of understanding and empathy that he's capable of, but somehow, he thought this way is the best way for both of them to live. He knew John was amnesiac. He also knew John's body wasn't responding to medication very well, but he couldn't blame himself for it, simply because John would suffer from those sometime soon.

He had told John that he was suffering from a brain tumor, that he was dying in less than two months, and he had told him that he "wanted John". John's problem was that he didn't understand the game, he didn't understand how to play along, how to cooperate and keep up with Sherlock's brilliance, and that fact sometimes confused Sherlock because he questioned his love for John and every time, and God, every single time he would call himself a twat for it.

Sherlock sometimes pauses the memory and stares at John's expressionless face and lost eyes in his mind. He would always get utterly uncomfortable, because in his whole life, John was one person Sherlock couldn't read the thoughts of. He could tell what he's been doing by his features and appearance, but never what he's thinking. John Watson was a locked door to Sherlock, and he was in love with it. Sherlock could tell that John wasn't doing very well that night, or the previous nights, but he'd never thought that John would take his word seriously and let it boggle his mind. It was an experiment. The whole thing, was an experiment. He wanted to see John's reaction to his friend giving him the news of his death. He was experimenting. There was nothing wrong with that. Of course Sherlock wouldn't spoil his beautifully made up story just to take John out of confusion and blankness.

Sherlock was taking note of every little thing John had done that night. It was in his mind. Safe and sound and ready to be resolved. It was love, Sherlock had thought. He was _teasing_ the man he loved.

He never knew that John would surprise him with a kiss and make him practically lose his hold of the experiment. He never knew John would faint and start blabbering meaningless words. He never knew Mrs. Hudson would arrive and gape and tell Sherlock to call an ambulance. He never knew his fingers would obey his land lady and let strangers take John away on a stretcher. He never knew John would get mentally sick and be sent to a fucking asylum. He never knew he would go with him and cry and scream because all of his neat experiment was now becoming a love story in which both lovers lose their minds. He never knew he'd be sitting in a chair someday, waiting for someone to give him news of the world outside of a room which he referred to as a 'cell' in the back of his mind. He never knew that he would see John and would jump on him and he also never fucking knew John would pass out then too, and be sent to a hospital which was too far for Sherlock to bear. It wasn't his fault that the nurses and the doctors had blamed John's coma on him and described his act of love, an act of violence. He never knew he would have to get more counseling with new doctors and get twice as much shots. He never knew his experiment would lead to all this shit because his brain shut off when John's warm and soft mouth was planted on his own. His mind was far too busy focusing on all that was happening in front of him, than to wander off in the maze that was in his mind. All the halls and rooms of his mind palace were foggy the instant John led out a whimper in Sherlock's mouth. John was radioactive, and Sherlock didn't have time to cover his brain with lead, so he was caught off-guard. It was madness, but Sherlock thought it was love. He wanted to be love to John, not a piece of paper in a binder that described him as a source of violation.

There was a knock at the door and Sherlock was taken back to present by the awful hands of now. He tried to clear the phantoms from his head and grasp reality. He turned his head which felt heavy on his shoulders, with the weight of either bitter guilt or absolute loather for this mad place.

A new face appeared a few inches away from him. Tall and blue and wrong. It was a woman.

"Mr. Holmes."

The woman had blonde hair. Sherlock instantly knew it was dyed. The detective was still observant, even in times of pressure, correction; especially in times of pressure.

She took a couple of steps closer and reached the chair in front of Sherlock, behind the little metal table that had scratch marks on it. Sherlock remembered getting two extra morphine shots for those, he had broken a little camera on the ceiling too.

"I am Sarah Turner." She had a small smile. "I have some news for you."

"Have you decided that the medication isn't working on me and I should be buried alive?"

She kept her smile and shook her head. Sherlock hated knowing that she was used to this behavior and wasn't a bit surprised by his words.

"You know Mr. Holmes, I am happy to know that you have a tiny sense of humor in you. Most patients scream and shout when they see a new counselor, but you are different I guess." She said while tracing some scratches on the table. How could someone even try scratching a metallic surface and not stop and wince at the sensation and the noise?

"You said you have news."

"Yes."

"I assume that's just a conversation starter, I have heard that sentence a lot before and the last time I heard it I had to get a new bed and a new list of medication and a new counselor which I think looks quiet happy for someone talking to people such as me who are locked in a pathetic room which no one wastes time to dwell on, so please if you have the same news as the four counselors that I've dealt with before, walk out of this room and escape from the great gray walls that surround me and my thoughts. I don't want pity or cared for introductions, I have already seen what I had to and now you can leave me and tell the new counselor to wear a less intense kind of perfume, that way I can only wince at the idiotic questions they ask me, not—"

"It's about John Watson."

Sherlock's moving hands and mouth suddenly stopped, his eyes went wide and then narrowed. He coughed and leaned back in his chair.

 _John_.

"I've been informed that your counselor, Rob Reynolds, had you talk about patient John Watson on a tape. Now, what you might not know is that he had worked on your shared case with Mr. Watson for quiet a while now and he is basically a shared counselor between you and John. I'm not here to give you the news of getting you a new counselor, I'm here to inform you that John Watson is dead. None of our workers took the responsibility to inform you of that, but me, as the person who runs this corporation had to do my job and also respect your rights so I figured I tell you myself."

Grenades exploded in Sherlock's brain. Tornadoes were formed. Mirrors were shattered into several cutting pieces. Icehouses turned into hot water. Rain set itself on fire. Volcanos erupted, piles of lava melted every apparition saved on Sherlock's hard drive which he called 'brain'.

He felt anger, nausea, love, jealousy, sadness and a lot more, he didn't remember their names. Colors danced in a kaleidoscope of mad and then floated away in a gray cloud. Names, words, sentences, paragraphs, books, chats, were all in gibberish; no meaning, just cold. Ice cold and gray, like John's face that night in the restaurant.

John.

John.

_John._

_John?_

_You were the resemblance between gray and gold. You were the brilliant sky after the long rain. You were the non-fictional living magic in my mind. You were the language, and the alphabet, and the tongue, you created words and planted footprints made of paragraphs in my mind. You were the unbroken shattered and the peaceful panic. You were the pain and the pressure and the close precision and now, I let my anchors sink in the storm, because now is the best time to drown, without no you here._

The rise and the fall and the terribly cruel reality of John's death starts sinking in each one of Sherlock's brain cells. He feels more and more nauseous at the feeling that he gets when finally realizing how obtuse and wrong all of this is. He can picture his life crumble in front of him like the instant a piece of play-doh comes in contact with hydraulic press, crushed and destroyed and abolished and and shattered and splintered and eradicated.

Of course it was easy for the detective to believe the woman's word, no matter if he haven't seen her before. It's just as easy for Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Donovan and Anderson to believe that even Sherlock Holmes could be taken down one day. He of course was a little disappointed and bitter at the universe for not letting him see John drift away in person, but that doesn't distract him from thinking about John bring biologically and physically gone from this world.

"Do you, had, did, what were his last words?"

Sherlock wants to holler and wince at how weak and shaky and entirely broken he sounds. He wants to curse English for being such an unfair language and he wants to flinch at how physically painful ' _last words_ ' sound like. _John Watson's last words._

"No, one of our staff found him dead in his bed. No one was beside him in his last moments and oh, it's been said that he died listening to your tape."

Oh. _Oh_.

Sherlock thinks it's a good way to die.

His keenly intellectual senses tell him that; that it's a brilliant way to die, except the shitty fact that John Watson won't be aware of his death in real life, and that he won't die from lack of oxygen in his lungs while trying to kiss and _consume_ John. He still likes to die though.

Sherlock doesn't believe in heaven or hell, but he believes that there's some sort of place in high skies for the dead. There should be. Not that science can't reject this idea, but Sherlock doesn't want to make an argument anymore. He had thought about John's death before. He had plans for that day, he was always next to John and he had never imagined otherwise. He thought it was heartbreaking, even though he wasn't meant to have a heart. He had a brain, and that was enough. John Watson had the power to shut it off by simply pushing him against the bloody wall, that was why John was amazing and divine.

Sherlock still thought death was amazing. He knew his ability of writing was tainted with lack of explanation and detailing. The reader would never know when what happened or he would never mention the actions leading up to an event. He would just kill the protagonist or just end the story whenever he was bored, no matter if he was in the middle of a sentence, or just trying to finish writing a word. So he decided to close the partly open book he was.

He thought fast.

He nodded to the woman and told her to give him some time to process things, then he started observing her appearance, looking for sharp objects.

 _Plastic buttons._  
Woolen hair tie.  
Fake golden necklace.  
Round blue buckles.

_Bloody hell._

Then be remembered the guard outside his room and smiled.

Everything happened in slow motion.

  
"I am Sarah Turner and Sherlock Holmes was a mad man. I witnessed his death first hand, he attempted to assault me as I was exiting his room on July 8th and he was subsequently shot by Tim Winggins, the guard assigned to Mr. Holmes' room. Wiggins shot him in his chest and arm, which killed him momentarily. As the guards ran to get help I was there with him, trying to keep him alive as be said some muffled words and handed me a piece of paper that he had hid in the palm of his hand. It said:

" _It is of my great pleasure, to have known you. Your impeccable abilities to understand and comprehend will always amaze me more than seeing a brilliantly planned murder._

_John, you complete me. I admit that I was never complete, I tried to solve cases for a living and use my astonishing brain to believe I'm whole, but it never worked until I met you. You made me whole John, still do. You were an idiot sometimes which made me envy you family and friend that have known you a long time, because I never knew how much I needed such idiotic behavior sometimes._

_I lied to you. I lied to my brother once, about how he was adopted and that my mother had show me the papers. We were very young then, but he still didn't believe me and got me grounded when he told out dad. I thought you wouldn't believe it either. You always play along John, you always know. You always screamed at the telly when they showed those immaculate people that were saying how they would fight for this country. You always knew who was lying and who was telling the truth. I was lying John, didn't you see? It was an experiment. All and all and everything and everything. You didn't react the way I wanted you to. You believed me and even worse, you kissed me. John I was dying and you led me live, why didn't you stay though???_

_I am just rooms away from you, you know. I want to breathe the air you breathe and I want to sooth you. I want to hold you in both arms and get you out of this ridiculous shit and mud. I will kiss you and I swear I will apologize, a proper one. I will tell you more when I see you. It's always you. John Watson, you keep me right, you..."_

Later when I gave the letter to Reynolds, he informed me of a quiet interesting fact and then Sherlock Holmes was a closed book to us; the words on the paper were completely identical to the words on the tape."

 

 


End file.
